


Stars in the Water, Fish in the Sky

by Besin



Series: World Domination and Other Occupations [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Coersion, Mutant!Danny, Mutant!Peter, X-Men AU - Freeform, mutant!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:05:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3572411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Besin/pseuds/Besin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking from the tank that has become his prison, Peter finds himself working for the very scientists who ordered a young boy to stand in the parking lot, leaning against his car, not one week prior.</p><p>But for Stiles, it's been longer than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dispatched

Rotors whir angrily and fluid rushes through his ears as Peter comes to. Gravity seems to upend itself as he blinks water from his eyelashes. Across his face is a long mask, tugging insistently at the curves of his ears the the skin of his cheeks; clinging as if it has been there for days. At his back and around his chest is a harness. It lifts him easily from the gaping mass of wetness beneath him, depositing him on a narrow catwalk above what appears to be an enormous tank.

Without warning, a long towel pelts him in the face, wrapping around his neck and shoulders in one smooth motion.

“Dry yourself off,” a high, stately voice demands.

Glancing up, Peter squints against the light, managing to make out the dim outline of long legs, dangerous heels, and two hulking shadows.

…

“So you want me to help you?” The mask has been removed; his clothes returned; his neck fitted with a stiff collar that left his throat feeling… empty.

“We want you to work for us,” the woman – Lydia – clarifies without meeting his eyes. Her attention seems fixed on her nails, observing the pink lacquer with a bored grimace. “And I’m not going to lie; you’re not being given a choice.”

Peter leans back in his seat. “Say I don’t cooperate,” he snaps. “What then?”

“Then you go back in that Tank,” Lydia replies, eyes lifting from her nails to look pointedly at the bit of steel wrapped tight around Peter’s throat. “And we bring you back out in a month and ask the same questions.”

“And if I decide to play along?”

“You get a bedroom. Nice clothes. A requisition paycheck for personal belongings. Food that isn’t pumped through a tube into your stomach. And all you have to do is follow a little script.” Slapping a hand over the contract on the desk, she slides it purposefully toward the man. “Sound good to you?”

“And if I want to leave?”

Lydia chuckles. “Honey,” she tells him bitterly, leaning forward in her seat until her breasts pressed tantalizingly against her arms. “No one leaves. And every time you decline, the offer’s going to get worse. So choose. Better,” she taps the paper pointedly, then glances up at the tank, “or worse.”

As he mulls it over, she drags a Reese’s – an honest to god Reese’s, Jesus Christ, they’ve been out of business for fifteen years – out of her purse and starts taking measured bites of each of the corners.

…

It’s an entire week before Peter’s first assignment. One whole week before they shove him on to a tarmac with a script in his pocket and a bag over his head.

It’s not removed until they’re in the air.

 _This is a helicopter_ , Peter notes somewhat belatedly, though he should have known from takeoff. The interior of it is rough; all exposed wires and sharp edges. _Business before pleasure_ , the man finds himself musing before turning to his companions as the bags were removed from their heads and their guard steps purposefully back into the cockpit.

“You,” Peter hisses as the boy from the hotel is revealed.

The boy rolls his eyes. “Long time no see, Mr. Hale.” He flexes his hands; obviously not bound like Peter's. He stretches them above his head, then to the side, groaning.

Beside him, an older boy with broad shoulders and tanned skin grins amicably. “Stiles,” he greets. “You’ve grown.”

“Three inches,” the younger boy replies proudly, dropping his hands to his side.

“Why the hell are you here?” Peter snaps.

The two boys pause, then glance over at him curiously.

“Oh right,” Stiles mutters, blinking away his confusion. “I brought you in, didn’t I?”

“‘Didn’t I?’” Peter mocks. “It’s been a week.”

The younger boy scoffs. “For you, maybe.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

The tanned boy cuts in with a scoff. “Hey, lay off, okay? We’re on a mission. We need to keep things at least a little civil.”

Peter turns on the boy with a grimace, shifting uncomfortably against his seat. The ropes dig painfully into his wrists as he does so. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“You first, old man,” the boy snaps. “Name – all of them. Age. What you do. Go.”

Narrowing his eyes curiously, the older man hesitates for a long while before answering. “Peter, thirty-two, vocal coercion.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Stiles teases lightly, lips pulling away from his teeth in a dangerous looking grin.

Peter snaps a glare in his direction.

“Danny Mahealani,” the tanned boy announces, demanding their attention with his soft tenor sharpening just enough to imply a threat. “Nineteen, computer specialist. Back home they called me the son of Kilauea, but here they just call me Lava.”

“Humor me,” the older man drawls. His eyes fix on the boy’s hair; styled expertly about his face in a way many of the boys he’d approached had. It puts him off in a way he hadn’t expected it would when the sacks had been removed from their faces. “Why would they call you Lava?”

Danny smirks, dimples flashing and large brown eyes sparkling mischievously. “Because lava is what I do.” He’s increasingly handsome in that moment.

His back straightens proudly, and Peter is suddenly very aware of how tall he is. No doubt if they stood the boy would dwarf him by several inches.

There’s a bit of silence before Stiles jumps excitedly in his seat. “Oh, right, my turn,” he chokes out, glancing between them, as if sensing the sudden tension that ran between Peter’s shoulders and the length of Danny’s spine. “Stiles. My age differs on who you ask. I’m the getaway driver.”

“And why, pray tell, would we need a getaway driver?” Peter snaps, glancing away from the Hawaiian boy long enough to pin Stiles with an expression of utter confusion.

“Because,” Danny drawls back with equal condescension. “Today we happen to be breaking into one of the highest security research facilities in Alaska.”


	2. Kilauea

Stepping out onto the tarmac is a surprise among surprises. It’s frigid, blustery, and bright. Alaska at its best, to be sure. As they are ushered into a car, they pass by a group of three men in charred clothes with bags over their heads, and Peter requests for his hands to be unbound.

“I see no one told you,” Danny laughs when the guard steps away and slams the door shut. “Wrists are kept tied for the first three missions. After you’re on the payroll – and they’re sure you’re not going to run off – they come off.”

“Joy,” Peter drawls bitingly.

The tanned boy shrugs, then continues unperturbed. “Six months after that, you’re allowed either internet access or chaperoned visits into town – unless you’re Stiles here.”

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in.” Stiles slouches down into his seat, legs splaying out to the sides as he stares at the blackened windows. They are freshly painted, and still reek faintly of fumes.

The car pulls over before long. Within seconds the driver rolls down the dividing window, peering back at them. “Showtime, boys,” he tells them. “Get out.”

Danny and Stiles open the car door and step out without much else to prompt them, but Peter lingers. He eyes the driver conspiratorily, gaze lingering on her dark glasses and expertly tweezed eyebrows.

In reply, she grins a sharp-toothed grin at him and flicks a forked tongue out in a hiss before rolling the window back up. As she’s cut off from view, she teases him with a sarcastic, “Try not to catch fire this time.”

_This time?_

“Hurry up, old man!” Stiles shouts from the sidewalk.

Peter scowls before scooting out of his seat and steps onto the road.

…

They are pointed at a building, and when they enter Peter does his best to make it look like he’s just awkwardly clasping hands instead of bound like the prisoner he is. With Danny and Stiles flanking him, he approaches the reception desk with a practiced smile. “Hello,” he greets warmly, eyes flicking quickly to her name tag, “Aiyana. Beautiful name.”

The receptionist grins softly, glancing up from her computer. “It was my grandmother’s,” she tells him sweetly. “Can I help you with anything?”

Slowly breathing in, Peter feels his throat vibrate as he calls for his power for the first time in weeks. “We’re here to see Mr. Cassidy,” he tells her slowly, voice hanging powerfully in the air as he recalls the script he had been given. “If you look in your records, you’ll see he’s expecting us. We have an appointment.”

A film filters over the pupils of the woman’s eyes, graying almost imperceptibly as she motions behind her. “The elevator will take you to the third floor. Mr. Cassidy is expecting you.”

“Thank you, Aiyana,” Peter oozes before stepping around the counter, boys following behind him cautiously.

When they step into the elevator, Danny scoffs. “That is the easiest infiltration I’ve ever been part of.”

Thankfully, there is no relaxing filler music to accompany their ascent. Peter is very glad for this as he vividly imagines Stiles humming obnoxiously along. When the elevator opens with a cheery ding, Danny steps out first.

“Follow me,” he tells them quickly, striding purposefully down the hallway. He tugs at the fringes of his suit jacket as they pass a man with particularly symmetrical cheeks bones in the hall, eyes lingering on wide, powerful shoulders.

“You can look,” Stiles whispers to Danny the man passes. “But you can’t touch this time.”

“I know, I know,” the Hawaiian boy drawls back just as quietly, leading them into a dark, wide room. It’s an office of sorts, decorated with a high-end desk topped with a computer, a rather fancy lamp, two guest chairs, and three rather oddly shaped ficus pots beneath a wide window. Reaching to his right, Danny flicks the lights on with a grin.

Peter jumps, closing the door as he finally steps into the room. “Shouldn’t we leave the lights off?”

“And instantly draw attention on the surveillance cameras? No way,” Stiles drawls, settling into the chair as Danny waves a hand toward one. “We need to appear normal.” Tugging pointedly on his tie, the boy settles into the chair with a professional grin. “Blend in, Mr. Incubus. And welcome to the field.”

“Incubus?” Peter echos, perplexed.

“It’s your codename,” Danny offers.

“Codename?”

“Yeah. Like, mine’s Lava. Speaking of which…” Rising to his feet, Danny made a show of crossing the room and twisting his hand to trigger the lock. But as it clicked into place it began to whine and hiss, and when the boy steps away the knob has melted into a mess of brass.

“You’re just full of surprises,” Peter muse, thoughts darks, eyes following the towering boy through the room as he makes his way to the computer chair and settles into it. Turning to Stiles, the older man asks with mock interest, “And what’s your codename?”

“I’m just Stiles,” the boy teases, grinning far too happily for his own good.

“Okay, we need a subject to throw off the security,” Danny throws out suddenly. “Watch anything new back home?”

“Yeah, actually,” Stiles continues happily. “Voyager just got its second season.”

“Man, you are in for a _treat_ ,” the Hawaiian boy coos excitedly. “Season two was good. In fact, the prince of Jordan is going to make a cameo in one of the episodes.”

The younger boy sighs. “Danny, careful with the spoilers,” he protests. “We’re on camera. I can’t slap my hands over my ears and sing.”

“In that case, in season four there’s going to be a main character who’s a Borg.”

“I hate you so much right now,” the boy hisses.

“What are you guys talking about?” Peter asks belatedly.

“Star Trek,” Stiles answers halfheartedly.

The older man blinks. “What? Like, Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto?”

Retrieving a flash drive, Danny popped it into the computer before staring Peter straight in the eye and telling him firmly, “I am so sorry.”

The computer beeps, and Stiles grins. “Are we in business?”

“We are…” The Hawaiian boy trails off, then taps at a few keys before grinning wide, dimples on display. “This’ll take about ten minutes, at best.”

Above their heads, an alarm trills brightly.

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters.

Rising from his chair, Peter fixes Danny with a look as the boy begins tapping desperately at the keyboard. “What’s going on?”

“They caught me,” Danny replies quickly. “Stiles, I need you to unplug the ethernet cord. Peter, lean against the door. In about thirty seconds some people are going to start trying to break it down.”

Racing over to the door, the older man plants his shoe in front of the crack at the bottom of the entrance as Stiles rips a green cord from the back of the computer.


	3. 1996

As the lights above them flickered from white to red, Danny leaped from his seat and strode purposefully toward the door. “Take over,” he demands, looking pointedly at Stiles as his hands tangle with his tie. Tossing it to the floor, he strides up to Peter just as someone begins to fiddle with the knob.

 _“It’s locked,”_ a voice from the other side complains.

 _“Of course it’s locked,”_ another person snaps. _“They’re thieves.”_

“Ha,” Stiles laughs, sniggering amusedly as he settles into Danny’s abandoned seat. “That think we’re robbing them.”

Danny inclined his head, shaking it humorously. “Well, they’re not wrong.”

 _“Kick down the door,”_ someone on the other side suggests.

“Step away from the door, Peter,” Danny commands, dropping his suit jacket to the guest chair and shoving his shirt sleeps up to his elbows. “You’re going to want as much distance as possible.”

The man jumps away, watching carefully as the boy slips his hand along the bottom of the door, leaving in its wake a trail of bright white matter.

 _“HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK!”_ a man screams from the other side of the door, and there’s suddenly a burst of movement and noise.

“I need you over here,” Stiles calls, looking up from the screen in mild annoyance. “I think I hit something.”

Stepping away from the door, Danny leans over the boy’s shoulder to glance at the screen. “You just hit the home button. Hit it again and it should take you back to the desktop.”

“Home button? I thought it was a start menu!” the boy squeals.

“No. That’s – what OS do you work with?”

“OS?”

“What’s the logo that pops up when you load up your computer? What does it say?”

“Windows,” Stiles replies quickly. “What is this?”

“Windows 8.”

“If this were Windows they’d have a start menu!”

Rising to his feet, Danny massages the bridge of his nose with his hand before stepping away from the computer. Glancing at Peter, he motions for him to go over to Stiles. “You deal with this. I need to make sure no one comes through.”

Just as Peter steps behind the computer, the door flies open, and three men come filing in.

Danny’s immediate response is to throw his arms to the floor and melt the floor beneath their feet. Screams of agony fill the air as it grows thick with smoke and the stench of melting flesh. “Is it done downloading yet?” the Hawaiian boy calls as his shirt catches fire. He pats it it angrily, and the sleeve suddenly freezes. Then he sags, lungs seeming to lag even as he breathed in the thick air. “I’m out,” he manages to wheeze, glancing over at Stiles.

Peter watches in fearful amazement as the melted floor flares white, and then the carpet begins to burn.

Then the room begins to burn.

“We need to get out of here,” he screams as the computer whines, and Danny drags himself behind the desk. The flames are roaring higher and higher, and above them the ceiling sputter before – miraculously – the emergency sprinkler pops right off and a stream of water cascades from above them and through the hole leading to the lower floor.

“Not until we have the file,” the Hawaiian boy shouts over the roar as the floors reach them.

Peter steps away just a touch too late as flames lick at his pants and shirt, and he steps closer to Stiles, patting at them desperately. “We may not have a choice.”

Danny leans over the boy at the computer, who finally seems to have figured out how to get back to the desktop.

The screen read, “Copying Files, 60%.”

“When can you jump?” the boy asks loudly.

“I have a chance in three seconds,” Stiles shouts over the roar of the flames. “After that, I may not have one for a few minutes!”

“Then this will have to be enough!” Danny screams, yanking the flash drive from the computer and latching on to Stiles.

A startlingly cold hand latches on to Peter’s arm, and then… silence.

Beneath their feet glitters a galaxy. Overhead, large shadows of fish-like forms writhe and swim. The room is gone. The heat is gone. The flames of their clothes have been extinguished.

“What-” Peter manages softly before Stiles interrupts him with a laugh.

“Welcome to the tesseract,” he informs him softly, coughing lightly. “I can choose what to bring with me – or what not to.”

“The tesseract?”

Stiles ignores him, leading a sleepy Danny to the far side of the “room,” where a cluster of shadows wait. “Keep up,” he calls.

The man hurries after the pair, and as they pass through the thick, tangible shadows that made up the walls of the “tesseract,” Peter openly stares as light comes flowing in. The room has changes, not to anything or anywhere special. No – it had led into a room very similar to the one they had just been in.

His eyes land on the three oddly shaped ficus that sit beneath the window and flinches.

It’s the same room.

Stepping toward the window, carefully avoiding the focus, Stiles throws it open wide, then leaps out onto the fire escape. Danny sleepily follows, as does Peter. They’re met seconds later by their driver; tinted windows ominous in the daylight. Before long they’re ushered into their seats, and the driver makes a comment about their singed clothes.

“What did you do?”

The car starts up, and Danny falls against the long seat opposite them, falling asleep instantly as they drive away from the building.

“You manipulate thoughts with your voice and alter electrical paths in the brain,” Stiles redirects, then waves a hand vaguely at the boy out cold on the opposite seat. “Danny can alter the vibration of atoms. He can slow them down. Speed them up. Even stop them, if he wants.”

Peter stares curiously at the boy for a moment, thoughts lingering a bit too long on the word stop. “And you?”

“I…” He draws to a pause. “Well, it’s my codename.”

“Stiles?”

The boy nods, but doesn’t turn to meet his eyes. “Do you know what a Stile is?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“It’s an opening in a fence or wall that allows passage. I can find them. Not physical ones. It’s more a… feeling. They come every thirty seconds or so, and can use them to find passage into the tesseract.”

“Time,” Peter mumbles, shocked. “You have control over time.”

“Space and time,” Stiles corrects. “And just like you, I have my… limits.” His right hand grips the fabric of his singed shirt, drawing it up to reveal a bracelet very similar to Peter’s necklace, though his seems to be made of a darker material. “Tungsten Carbide,” the boy tells him softly, eyes locked on the bracelet. “I’m never getting this thing off.”

“Have you ever seen the future?”

Stiles laughs.

The older man frowns, perplexed. “What?” he asks, eyes snapping from the painted windows to the boy pressed against them.

“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” Stiles giggles after a few seconds. When Peter doesn’t reply, he laughs again, a dark sound, and shakes his head amusedly. “I’m from 1996.”


End file.
